Choices
by A Word Smithy
Summary: "Why didn't you let me jump?" I choke out. "I'm going to die anyway. At least this way it would have been my choice."


My first memory is of trees.

I was three or four at the time, and my father had taken me to the upper district, where the have the arboretum, for the afternoon. It was a hot day, and I had been driving my mother mad with my cries until he came home from the factory.

After finding us in such a state, my father let Mother stay home and steal a moment of relaxation, while he took me down to the arboretum, letting me toddle around the branches, laughing as I babbled happily. He says that he only looked away for a moment, exchanging a few word with someone he knew, before he looked back and I was gone.

Frantically he looked around, around the bushes, and by the flowers. Hearing a gurgle from a small maple, he rushed to it, to find me sitting on a branch, slightly above his head.

He says I was calm, wide brown eyes sparkling, and mouth open with a laugh.

My only recollection is the cool air whipping past me, so different from the lower district three, and my fathers face, staring up at me. It is the fractured memory of someone very young but I can distinctly remember how I felt. I had no fear, no fear at all, even though I could easily have fallen. I had not even considered that it might have been dangerous, not until I saw the fear in my father's eyes, the relief as he gently lowered me to the ground.

I'm not sure why I felt so comfortable there, or why I felt such an urge to keep climbing. Maybe even then I recognized the way the district seemed to trap me, with it's fumes and whirring, the factories a constant noise. Maybe even then, I was ready to get away.

It is reaping day, and the entire district seems to have gone still.

The factories are turned off, the trains not running. No one moves in the streets; we all wait quietly for the beep that will tell us to move to city central.

With a sigh I move away from the window, high up on the building of the Hall of Justice, and close the book I has been reading. Padding lightly down the hallway, feet sinking into the thick carpet, I set it back on the shelf.

I didn't have to come to work today. Nobody really works on Reaping day, and certainly no one is going to require anything from the archives. Barely anyone comes most days, more then 75% of our population at the factories. I would be too, if not for the accident last year, when I was 16. It may have left a brutal scar, but that can be hidden, unlike the desolation of the lower district.

I glance up at the clock, and my stomach jumps nervously. My daydreaming has accomplished something at least; it is later then I thought. So I scoop up my jacket from the chair by the door and hurry out, locking the oak doors behind me and slipping the key into a cabinet nearby.

I have to hurry if I want to be ready in time.

Racing out the doors, Fitz gives me a nod, simply muttering a good luck. Burdge just stares at me, sadness in her eyes.

I run all the way home, enjoying the feeling of my body working even though my arm stings. I run past the modern buildings into the lower district, past shabby apartments and people that stare at me through their windows with haunted eyes. I am running late, for all that I am enjoying the freedom that running brings.

All to soon I am home, and tumbling through the front door.

"You're late", Mother is in the kitchen as I barrel through. "Why are you always late Violet"? She follows me up the stairs, and even though her voice is scolding, her hands are gentle as she helps me shed the loose dress and pull the good one on.

"I don't mean to be," I reply, wriggling to get the dress to sit right. "Truly I don't, it always just kind of… happens?"

Mother sighs, and begins to comb my hair, a tradition that we have kept up since the first reaping. Not only is it comforting, it's also time saving, as my black curls have a habit to be snarled and unmaneagable, at least to me. This is the 6th year of the tradition, and after this there will only be one more before I am to old to be entered. So far, the odds are okay; my name is in there 10 times, only 4 more then my age requires.

There is always a chance though, something I'm trying to forget.

We sit in silence both of us comforted by the gently familiarity of it all, the gentle tug of the comb, and her hand on the side of my face, pulling back stray curls.

Slowly, she twists the hair up, pulling it into something between a bun and a ponytail. It looks elegant, and tasteful. Her hand drops.

"You're ready", she says, into the silence. The buzzer will be ringing any minute now.

We don't say anything else; everything has been said between us for years now. Our family has never hidden how we feel about each other; she knows I love her, and her me. We are intensely a part of each other's lives, and there is nothing more to be said. To speak now would only hurt us both, so we head out into the living room, where my father enfolds me in his arms. Fastening a small bracelet made of wood around my wrist, he kisses my forehead. The buzzer sounds.

"Time to go".

Together we head back the way I just ran, joining other families.

I separate from my parents when we reach city central, walking over to the registration table for 17 year old girls. The arboretum is near hear.

"Hello, hello, hello!" a twittering voice booms out suddenly across the courtyard, and I see Amandla Essie, our districts escort, teetering on the stage before the hall of justice. She is dressed in the neon colors of the capitol, yellow, and pink, feathers everywhere.

I tune out as the yearly ceremony begins, speeches, some Capital propaganda. Wiress and Beetee make there speeches, and you can see pain in their eyes. Finally, Amandla sings out "Let's begin, shall we? First, our lady Tribute".

My entire side of the center seems to hold it's breath as she makes ceremony of swirling pieces of paper around in a glass bowl. She is playing the audience, heightening the anticipation as she has been taught.

"Violet Demezer"!

It's my name.

Good Lord.

I'm going to die.

For a moment, the world narrows around me, blood pounding in my ears, and eyesight blurry. All I can see if Amandla. The woman who just reaped me for the Hunger Games.

I'm going to die.

I'm shoved forward, and with each step, I feel tears well in my eyes. I imagine I look a fright, but in this moment, I don't care, because my heart is flailing.

I'm going to die.

I crumple before I reach the stage, a peacekeeper holding as I retch.

I'm going to die.

I throw up right there, in front of the whole of Panem, out of the sheer horror of it all.

Once I'm on the stage, I'm grateful my eyes are still blurry. I don't want to see the looks to disgust, or the looks of pity. No one volounteers for me. Wiress pats me on the back. I don't loom at my parents. Greh Hadley is called for boys, a thirteen year old from the upper district. I blindly shake his hand.

Everything is distant as we are hurried of into the Hall.

I'm going to die.

As the train races away from District Three, only a short ride to the capital, I fiddle with the bracelet my father gave me. Farewells had been hard, filled with tears and promises we all knew would never be kept. It was both to short and too long, and the sight of my parents crying almost broke my heart in two. I don't know how many times I twist the bracelet bfore the door clangs open. And the mentors stroll in.

Wiress and Beetee.

If anything, I'm glad it's them. They both have ways of looking at you that make you feel as if they know exactly what they're doing, and though Wiress never seems entirely _there, _Beetees intense focus makes up for it. They settle in across from me and Greh, offering wan smiles. Beetee takes a sip of water.

"So, you'll be arriving at the Capital soon". Wiress begins.

"And you need to be pleasant," Beetee continues. "Sponsors will be everything in the arena. We need to make you as appealing as possible, which means playing to their expectations. They'll go for the attractive ones, the brutal ones, _try to get their attention". _

"So-" Greh chokes out. "What should we do?"

"I need to know your skills." Beetee leans forward,. "Just the basics, we'll have detailed consultation later. What do you do in 3, Greh?"

The boy stutters out a short response on how he gets good marks in school, was about to start working in a lighting factory, and how he was on the track team. Apparently, he had taken some martial arts.

"We can work with that. Very innocent." Wiress speaks suddenly, though her voice trails off into nothingness.

Beetee turns to me. "Violet?"

My heart sinks. I have no skills, nothing violent anyway. I can remember small details that most people miss, I notice patterns. I organize, I read. I tell stories. Nothing that will help me kill people.

My stomach churns uneasily again, and I shake my head silently.

"Come on. You must have some skills. Where do you work?"

I look at him helplessly before whispering "The archives. The small ones, in city central."

"Oh!" Wiress chirps. "Were you involved in the sound system accident in 72?"

I nod. "Yeah. I used to work at that factory." I gesture at my left arm. "A muscle or something got ripped in the explosion. There's a scar..."

"Well, we'll find something." Wiress trills. "There's always something."

I wish to sink into the ground. I turn, a feeling of dread over taking me.

First is District 1, with a willowy blond girl with green eyes. Beautiful and confidant, she walks her way too the stage with her head held high. The boy is quieter, stands out less, but he's still confident, smiling at the crowd and giving them a jaunty wave.

Glimmer and Marvel. Filled with confidence. They think they can win.

Next is District 2, and my heart skips a beat.

The girl, Clove, is like an intense ball of dark energy. She can't be more then 15, yet she's muscled, tall, moves with intent, and scares me even through television.

But nowhere near as much as her partner.

The boy whose name is called is 16, but he doesn't even take a step forward before another boys bounds forward.

"I volunteer"!

He's so eager, so sure of himself. I can see why. He's huge, tall, muscled, with a handsome face and fair hair. He's striding up to the stage like it his birthright, and states his name.

Cato.

He looks straight into the camera for the moment, and fear rushes through me. Those blue eyes are cold, determined, pitiless, and I feel my heartrate pick up.

This is a Career, trained to kill. Deadly.

I have no hope.

Especially when my own reaping comes, and I see my own pathetic performance, the vomiting, the trembling, the tears. I am a joke, and I blush with shame. Beetee casts me a sympathetic glance.

No one else throws up, a few cry, but most of the other tributes are stoic as they take the stage, glassy eyes.

The only exception is District 12, where a girl lunges forward to volunteer for her sister. There is so much determination in her eyes; she looks like she is ready to take the world on. Staring at the cameras, she keeps her head high.

Why couldn't I have done that?

Turning away from the screen, I bury my face in a silky cushion, and begin to cry. I cry because I have no hope of going home, because I will never see my family or district again. I cry because my parents will have to watch me die. I cry because I just marked myself a weakling, and a easy target in front of all of Panem.

I'm still crying when we pull into the Capital.


End file.
